of chess, with not too long an interval between the moves.

In the early days of the war in Flanders, the times were wondrously
stirring; one never knew where an attack would be launched, and what
would happen next. With such huge and mobile opposing forces in front of
us, every day had some fresh surprise in store. 'From early morning till
dewy eve' we lived on the tiptoe of expectation; for, indeed, the early
morning carried its message, but generally of discomfort, for not the
least discomfort of a campaign is the very early hour at which reveille
is sounded, usually at five, but sometimes at four; or, in the case of
emergency, at any hour of the night. But generally it comes just as the
attitude necessary to comfort has been discovered, and the somnolent
individual is ready for the luxury of what I may call a half and half
snooze. It is at that moment, in that mysterious borderland of sleeping
and waking, that the strident and compelling sound of the bugle falls
upon the unwilling ear. There is no turning over for another spell. One
comfort is, there is always very little toilet to perform; and in a few
minutes the place is alive with dishevelled and half-awake men. Where
water can be easily procured, cleanliness is the order of the day; and
with all our faults, one essential feature stands to the credit of the
British soldier: he _is_ a clean man. Never does Tommy miss his wash and
shave if there is half a chance of gratifying this admirable instinct.

All visitors to the Front are struck with the glorious health and
fitness of our lads. In fact, I have never seen such a collection of
healthy manhood in my life. This is attributable in the first place to
the natural open-air life which the men lead, but in the next place to
the excellent sanitary arrangements and precautions adopted and insisted
upon by the authorities, which very largely account for the remarkable
immunity from disease enjoyed by the troops.

Behind all this, comes the most important question of 'grub.' The
commissariat of the British Expeditionary Force is a marvel of
organization. During the last six months of my military service I
enjoyed the advantage of travelling up and down the lines from Ypres to
Bethune, and everywhere I was most profoundly impressed by the marvel of
supply. Scattered over the whole front are units, large and small, each
of which has to be fed daily; and woe to the unlucky A.S.C. officer who
is responsible for delay in